Poem
Pascale Petit
Self-Portrait with Fire Ants
Self-Portrait with Fire Ants
Self-Portrait with Fire Ants
To visit you Father, I wear a mask of fire ants.When I sit waiting for you to explain
why you abandoned me when I was eight
they file in, their red bodies
massing around my eyes, stinging my pupils white
until I’m blind. Then they attack my mouth.
I try to lick them but they climb down my gullet
until an entire swarm stings my stomach,
while you must become a giant anteater,
push your long sticky tongue down my throat,
as you once did to my baby brother,
French-kissing him while he pretended to sleep.
I can’t remember what you did to me, but the ants know.
© 2001, Pascale Petit
From: The Zoo Father
Publisher: Seren, Bridgend
From: The Zoo Father
Publisher: Seren, Bridgend
Pascale Petit
(France, )
Pascale Petit was born in Paris, grew up in France and Wales and lives in Cornwall. She is of French/Welsh/Indian heritage. Her eighth collection, Tiger Girl, from Bloodaxe in 2020, was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best Collection, and a poem from the book won the Keats-Shelley Poetry Prize. Her poems have been broadcast on BBC Radio 3 and 4, The Poetry Archive and Australia’s ABC Radi...
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Self-Portrait with Fire Ants
To visit you Father, I wear a mask of fire ants.When I sit waiting for you to explain
why you abandoned me when I was eight
they file in, their red bodies
massing around my eyes, stinging my pupils white
until I’m blind. Then they attack my mouth.
I try to lick them but they climb down my gullet
until an entire swarm stings my stomach,
while you must become a giant anteater,
push your long sticky tongue down my throat,
as you once did to my baby brother,
French-kissing him while he pretended to sleep.
I can’t remember what you did to me, but the ants know.
From: The Zoo Father
Self-Portrait with Fire Ants
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